Riches to Ruin
by Nihstel
Summary: Arram Draper has managed to escape the notice of Emperor Ozorne's notice for the past two years. A street magician and juggler, can he again reclaim his status as one of the world's most powerful mages?
1. A Card Trick

_Disclaimer: I own none of these characters or places._

_Bold type means a dream while italics says a flash-back that has no influence on the story other than informational_

_This my first Fan Fiction so be gentle._

_Does anyone have ideas on how Arram changes his name or meets Alanna/Geogre/Raoul?_

_**Hopefully, I have fixed many grammar problems that I have been told I had. I thank you readers to alerting me to those problems. (We haven't worked much on dialogue grammar yet in school.)**_

_**Riches to Ruin **_

_Sometimes it's the smallest decisions that can change your life forever."_

**Chapter One: A Card Trick**__

"_**You've lost, Arram. Admit it." Ozorne's voice was triumph and arrogant together. He stood, gold paint placed meticulously over his cruel features. He stalked forward, his upraised hands cupping a glowing mage fire.**_

"_**What did I do!" shouted Arram, the confused mage backing up, holding a glittering white filled black shield in front of him. His once fine robe was in tatters, gashes torn into the fine cloth. Ozorne could not defeat him alone; it would be like a flea trying to take on a tiger. However, Arram couldn't bring himself to launch a spell at his friend, his hesitation forcing him into a corner he could not get out of. **_

_**Shouts rang from beyond the doors, emitting from the marble corridors: mages and guards coming to the aid of their emperor. He glanced around desperately; his mage-shield fending off Ozorne's spells with out difficulty. "Burn, Arram! Bow down to your fate!" shrieked the emperor-mage as his guard rushed at the black-robe.**_

Arram bolted up right, jaw aching from smothering his own screams. His left arm was raised, unconsciously, in a gesture that would have thrown a spell if he had not caught himself. The only light came from the smoldering coals in the common hearth, casting everything in dancing shadows. Three cloaked lumps lay scattered around him, stirring restlessly and holding enemies to Arram's sleep-blurred eyes. He stilled instantly, heart pounding wildly as he exerted his self-control over himself.

_No magic, _he thought, taking deep breaths, _Ozorne can track me. _Two years on the streets had instilled a deep sense of self-preservation. His voice, once cultured and elegant had, within a few weeks, adopted the street cant of the lower world. Nails that had been carefully manicured were now ragged and teeth-bitten, a habit the mage had picked up even before his exile, a problem only now because there was no way to fix them. He managed to get to his feet without waking his fellow travelers, who were all light sleepers, and slip out the door, tugging a ragged cloak around his broad shoulders.

The small village of Hartsford lay in the bend of a small river that eventually ran into the Emerald Ocean. Newly sowed farms were dusky in the predawn light, all ranged around the small cluster of buildings that made up Hartsford. Past the worked land lay forest just waking from the winter slumber, brimming with new bird song. The houses were made of thatched roofs and solid wood walls. No candlelight came from behind the dark shutters that covered most of the glassless windows. The skies were clear, but cold winds predicted a cold snap or at least cold days ahead.

Arram made his way north on the rutted road, looking keenly around for any signs of life. He loathed to leave the peaceful village but here offered no work for a man with no planting experience and only small magic tricks for a payable skill. His six foot five frame would have been broken under the toil anyway and even years of living moving from place to place had not added any strength to the bony body. His calluses came from juggling, not planting and his only skill was with his Gift that was useless unless in the small forms Ozorne could not sense. He could lecture the farmers on the biology and origin of their plants but that would end up with a suspicious set of people who would think him mad or worse. There was a regret over leaving his fellow travelers but was covered by the fact Hedson Dale had been probing a little too deeply into the tall juggler's history.

Arram's long legs made quick work of the walk distancing him mile by mile from the village. He silently complemented his next move. The closest city that offered pickings for a street entertainer was Port Legann but that was south and west. He could manage it in two to three weeks at a slow pace but in all possibility his meager store of food would not last that long. Pushing his endurance, he could make it in a week or so but it would leave him exhausted. The only thing he had in ready supply was water from the stream rushing twenty or so meters deep in the forest to his left but it would end in ten miles were it would turn west too soon. Maybe he could gain a few coppers in Edilon and Newtown, the two towns between Hartsford and Port Legann but a harsh winter could limit the money the peasants were willing to part with.

Arram had a handful of copper bits and three jealously guarded copper nobles. He had wanted to save them for hard times but that might not be possible if he wanted to get proper lodgings in Port Legann.

**µ**

"Pick a card," he told the young girl in front of him, his dark face covered by the cowl of his cloak, "Any card but don't show me." She gave him a frown but reached forward and grasped a black backed card. It might not work, as he was relying on the concentration of a seven-year old but the spell needed little to work. Base impressions flickered vaguely over his thoughts until it solidified for an instance into the fourth of swords. A tired smile flickered over his face, a gentle, silent laugh at the look of fierce concentration on the dirty girls face.

"Well?" the girl demanded, "Which one es it?" Arram leaned forward quickly and pinched his fingers just behind her ear.

"You should wash your ears better," he told the surprised little girl as he pulled a duplicate of her card from behind her ear. With a flourish, he laid the card face up on the ground in front of him.

She looked at it for a moment before shrieking, "Yous cheated!"

He gave out a low chuckle before shuffling up the cards again. After three more games, the girl finally conceded defeat. "You should run along to your mother." he informed his young customer. He cocked his head and placed a hand behind his ear, listening, "I think she's calling."

She gave out a snort of disdain and drew herself up proudly. "She en't becose she's talking to the baker." The girl pointed at a stern faced woman who looked to be in an argument with the plump baker.

Flurry of activity flared in the corner of his eye and he spun around in time to see a mob of thin, dirty street rats rushing away from the side street that lead to the poorer market. A man, red faced with fury, raced after them with a raised staff. "Thieves, thieves!" the man screeched, the thin bony fingers of his free hand pointing at the urchin crowd. A thin veil of almost gold hung around one of the boys in the front, telling Arram that the thief had a small amount of Gift. People turned and chaos erupted as several of the vendor guards broke after them. Most of the coves and mots began fading into the alley mouths and doorways. Arram scooped up his cards and grabbed the little girls hand to pull her into the wall. The crowd bolted past, hands full of bruised fruit in good enough condition to make his mouth water.

When they passed he let go of the girl. The women at the baker looked around and called out "Merie!" The little girl started a little then began fumbling in the thin pockets of her worn blue dress.

Merie pulled out three small coins. "'hank you, Mister." She said and pushed them into his palm and before he could protest, she was gone, running through the dusty square to her mother. He uselessly raised a huge hand before turning and rapidly sliding into the alley to his right. Cool shade took much of the edge off the unusual heat and hid him from sight from much of the people in the market. The three coins were placed into the small bag that hung around his neck by a leather cord and he unwrapped a threadbare cloth from around a week old loaf that last weeks petty earnings had bought.

He crammed half the loaf into his mouth, his hand hovering under to catch the crumbs he learned he could not afford to lose. It was tough and barely filled his empty stomach but took the edge off the hunger. His last meal had been yesterday, an over ripe orange that had fallen off the stall of a foreign fruit seller. Vague memories drifted to his tired mind of the imperial feasts that Ozorne had thrown, the grand dinners at the University. It made his stomach hurt even more and he harshly shoved the thoughts out of his head. It did him no good to try to hang onto the past. His days as the Carthaki Emperor's friend and the world's youngest black-robe had ended the moment Ozorne had accused him of treason and had him thrown in to the cells beneath the palace.

_Why did he turn on me? I did nothing._ Arram's mind ran in circles, endless circles. The question _why did he do this to me? _had pounded in his thoughts since the day Ozorne had betrayed him.

* * *

"_Arram." called Lindhall, the older mage standing in the doorway of his study, "The emperor requests your presence__." The twenty year-old mage turned to look at his former master's face. The cramped room was lit by only a few burning candles. The window was locked and shuttered, making the room retain much of the summer's heat. Arram was curious. Ozorne hadn't spoken to him in several months, too busy organizing affairs between his nobles and state to talk much to his old friends. He shrugged it off. _

_The current experiment he was working on involved delicate calculations and testing but he supposed he could put it off for a few hours maybe a whole day if no one disturbed the room. It was more that he didn't want people seeing what the work was more than that they would ruin it. The complicated wards placed around the study by Arram himself and charged with enough power to blast anyone who attempted to get in through force. Lindhall had a charm that let him into the room without activating the wards. "A moment, Lindhall." he said back. Quickly he turned to straighten his notes and close several of the books he had taken from the library. "Could you return these for me?" he asked, picking up a couple he had found useless or had already studied to exhaustion. _

"_Of course Arram. Will you finally tell what you'__re working on?' asked the other mage, "You've been working on it for weeks." Lindhall easily carried the big leather-bound books. "And when was the last time you had left your rooms?"_

_Arram smiled easily, glimpsing his slightly pasty complexion in a nearby mirror. His naturally dark skin made it impossible to achieve true white skin but weeks of intense study and meals taken only when he remembered to, had turned him into a dark waif. He starched out his long limbs, bones popping and cracking as he worked out most of the kinks in his system. "Maybe a week ago," he said vaguely, waving a broad hand as they walked past apprentices in pale robes. "And for what I've been doing, it's an idea you gave me."_

_Lindhall looked at him suspiciously. "And…" he said, clearly waiting for an explanation. After a moment, he let out a low groan. "You're not going to tell me, are you? Gaining black-robe rank has clearly made you insufferable."_

_Arram laughed. "According to you I've always been insufferable. Moreover, you are right. I am not going to tell you until I am sure it is going to work. It would be disappointing to have it fail and ruin your expectations." They parted at the library doors and the black-robe turned to head to the streets. He spoke to no one as he made his way to the imperial palace. His dress, a heavy black robe that marked his status as one of the most powerful mages in the world, one of only eight got him into through the gates with no opposition and he lengthened his stride. It did no good to keep the Emperor-Mage of Carthak waiting. A cluster of men and women by the doors that lead to the hall where Emperor Ozorne received foreign visitors displayed a variety of auras rippling over their skins; pale red, sky blue, emerald with violet streaks. He wondered what such a large group of Gifted would be doing at the doors but dismissed it as a common gathering of the University's mages. _

_Ozorne was sitting arrogantly on his throne. His necklace of black opals stranded on gold wire rippled with brilliant colors, making Arram aware of his own opal hanging around his neck. He had bought it after archiving black rank, which was within the last two months. He had not had a chance yet to tell Ozorne of it, for he was testing its properties first. He stooped into a proper bow, saying "Your Imperial Majesty" in a clear cultured voice that his father would have been proud of. _

_The emperor started at him coldly for a moment, before saying "Arram." His voice held nothing of the friendliness that Arram was accustomed to after years of friendship. His robes swished as he stood up, elegant red robes embroidered with decorations of gold thread. Gold beads were stranded in his hair and exotic scents perfumed the air around him. The puzzled mage watched him, waiting for an explanation for the summons. _

_Finally unable to stand it any longer, Arram asked, "Why was it you wanted…." _

_He was cut off as Ozorne snapped "Silence!" He stopped short and stared at the emperor in absolute confusion. What was this? True Ozorne had always acted as arrogant as he was now but never to Arram; he never demanded that Arram stand on all the court etiquette when they were alone. Ozorne had changed since the mage had begun studying for the black robe but not by this much. What had happened in the past months? _

_A sudden change passed over Ozorne, as he spun and rapidly mounted the steps to his throne. Cold had had replaced anger and calculation had replaced passion. "How have you been Arram?" inquired the emperor, the shocking shift in personality catching Arram off guard. _

_He starred warily at Ozorne before speaking, relaxing as he fell again in too the rhythm he and he boyhood friend had made. "I've been doing several experiments, many involving the barrier between here and the Divine Realms. The Theory of Alegreaton has explored many of my views and Lesment of Arye's Journal is truly a valuable resource in unraveling the barriers complexity." He decided to keep his most recent research a secret. Like he told Lindhall, what he was attempting was complicated and he did not want to disappoint his friend. _

"_Fascinating, Arram. Truly fascinating." The emperor'__s bland tone caught the black-robes attention. He peered closer at the imperial, slowing his talk. A strange gleam was in the other mages eyes and sweat beaded his upper lip. _

"_Ozorne, are you well? You don'__t look as if you are feeling well…" _

"_I'__m fine, Arram" said the emperor, his eyes gleaming icily, "Except for the fact that my best friend betrayed me." The words, so clearly and coldly spoken took Arram's breath away. He stiffened and realized it was a mistake. To Ozorne, who had been paranoid since taking the throne three years ago, would view this as a sign of guilt. A sneer touched the emperor's mouth and he sprang to his feet, a lash of flame leaping out of his tanned hand. Arram threw up a shield, the glittering wall made of opaque black filled with white stars. _

_Attacks slammed repeatedly into his shield. It took little effort to maintain it. To be a black-robe meant you had more power than almost any other mage in the world. However confusion slowed his reactions, making him too shocked to do little more than hold up the shield. His mind, a genius in academics, able to work through a library shelf in one night, obsession enough to work on a problem unceasing for weeks at a time, failed him. Arram stared into the eyes of his oldest friend and panicked. He threw magic at the doors, blocking them from being opened. He remembered sharply the group of red level mages hanging out in the entrance. It would take them time to get through the door but they would get through, along with perhaps an entire regiment of the Emperor's guards. _Mithros, Mynoss and Shakith! How could he attack the emperor of Carthak, the friend of his boyhood? _Arram knew his friendship was getting in the way; that his morals prevented him from effectively defending himself. Ozorne's attacks sometimes managed to get through the shield. Arram had had limited time to practice practical magic, preferring to lose himself in his studies. The one sided war raged for several minutes. The young black robe was soon bleeding in several places. _

"_You've lost, Arram. Admit it." Ozorne's voice was triumph and arrogant together. He stood, gold paint placed meticulously over his cruel features. He stalked forward, upraised hands cupping glowing mage fire._

"_What did I do!" shouted Arram, the confused mage backing up, holding a glittering white filled black shield in front of him. His once fine robe was in to tatters, gashes torn into the fine cloth. Ozorne could not defeat him alone; it would be a flea trying to take on a tiger. Arram though couldn't bring himself to launch a spell at his friend, his hesitation forcing him into a corner he could not get out of. _

_Shouts rang from beyond the doors, emitting from the marble corridors: mages and guards coming to the aid of their emperor. He glanced around desperately; his mage-shield fending off Ozorne's spells without difficulty. "Burn, Arram! Bow down to your fate!" shrieked the emperor-mage as his guard rushed at the black-robe, launching an enormous blast of flame._

* * *

The twisting alleys of Port Legann sheltered all of those like Arram: the homeless, the beggars, the thieves and travelers too poor to pay for a proper lodging. None of them spared much of a glance for the juggler but even so he kept the walls of the alleys firmly on one side so he could not be jumped from that direction. Street rats lay in huddled groups, dividing out a haul or sharing the local gossip. Mumpers, the crippled beggars of the streets, slept in piles of rags to get past the hottest part of the day.

Arram had been in Port Legann for two weeks, getting petty pay from the bored, the naïve, and the interested children who had money to spare. No one asked him where he had come from and he had not attempted at making friends other than finding out where the Court of the Rogue was so he could avoid it. Those who lived in the Court would be a little too interested in a new entertainer in town. He was lucky Tortall was not a slave country like Carthak; otherwise, he would have had to worry about slavers who thought a large man like Arram would fetch a good profit. Slavery though, had not been run legally in Tortall for the past hundred years. While many slave-country foreigners viewed this as Tortall being weak (Carthak included) many people, including his old master Lindhall and himself, viewed it as a disgusting practice.

He had personally seen the horrors of the slave pens up close when Ozorne had wanted to purchase new slaves for his place, just after his coronation. Accompanied by 15 guards, several mages, clerks, a few of his higher-ranking nobles and Arram himself, they had visited the slave market out on the docks. The new emperor had not even bothered to get off his horse. Each slave had been dragged in front of him for inspection and either found lacking or bargained over. Arram had always wondered why Ozorne had gone personally but he had not wanted to think too much about it. He had had symptoms of nausea for the rest of the day. The smell of unwashed humans combined with blood and metal had permeated the air for blocks away. Ocean winds had only managed to blow the scent inward instead of outward.

Arram's new 'home' consisted of a dead-end ally behind one of the better eating-houses. No one noticed he was there for most of the time and the rare trash that sometimes was thrown out the back door got Arram a few more meals than he could have gotten on his own.

A stray piece of warped wood had allowed him to make some sort of roof for shelter where it leaned at an angle against one of the corners. Pieces of cloth he had managed to find, along with his rather bland cloaked made the usually hard ground more bearable. Under the rags was a bag of eight juggling balls, a spare pack of cards and some more articles a street magician should have. Sitting with his back against the wall, the street mage mused vaguely. There was festival coming to town in a mater of weeks and rumors were flying around that the King's Champion, Alanna the Lioness was coming along with Raoul of Goldenlake and Malorie's Peak, Commander of the King's Own. From what he had gathered about the Champion told him he should avoid her as much as possible. Alanna, it was said, could spot magic a mile away. He was fairly certain the shields he had around himself could block any scrying attempt or basic magic searching spell and being a street magician meant no one would be inclined to look to closely at any magical residue. Nevertheless, to be safe, avoid her as much as possible.

* * *

_I will be leaving for London during spring break. I do not know if I am going to bring my laptop so the next update might be late._

_Reviews please!_


	2. Tired Laughter

_I will be leaving for London during spring break. I do not know if I am going to bring my laptop so the next update might be late._

_Reviews please!_

_

* * *

_

_**We all have ability. The difference is how we use it.**_

* * *

_**Chapter Two: Tired laughter. **_

_Built beneath the palace itself, the old walls had layers upon layers of magic imbedded into them to cancel the Mage Gift. Generations of troublesome mages had been held here, unable to use their magic because of the wards placed in the very walls; made at the construction of the palace, they were meters below the surface and nobody knew that it was there. It was the Empires' best kept secret, the cells know only to its builders- who had long since passed away- the emperor, certain high-ranking nobles who had the complete trust of their emperor and of course, the prisoners themselves._

_Arram had never expected to find himself here; imprisoned by his own friend. The sad thing was he did not have to be here. He could have blasted away all those who had attacked, turned them all to ash with a fraction of his power and he knew it. He was scholar though, an explorer of the arcane and _peaceful_. Killing a fellow human being, some whom he had debated with in the confines of the university was a notion that sickened Arram to his soul. _

_The cells were small, barely big enough for Arram to straighten out fully. No cot, no mat, no basin or water. Illuminating everything was a harsh, blinding light that emitted from the walls themselves, making the sanctuary of sleep almost impossible to obtain. Time had blurred, days perhaps sliding past without alerting the injured mage. He had no idea of the day or even the month since he had already been sketchy on both when he had gone to visit Ozorne. Weeks had moved past as he concentrated solely on his experiment._

_The time spent in Ozorne's dungeons, whether days or weeks, had not been kind. Arram's back was raw and bloody from torture and beatings. Both pinkies had been broken and he felt sure he had broken a rib. The heavy damping spells in the cell made Arram feel adrift from most of the world. Ever since discovering his Gift, it had always been a consistent presence in his mind, hanging just where he could reach it; without out it, he felt…isolated from everything. Even the pain came through a fog. A thin fog yes, but a fog never less. It helped actually. Arram was used to working his mind to exhaustion, it was something he could work through that and it helped alleviate the pain._

_The mage had almost finished unraveling the spells in the walls. He had known hours ago that he couldn't just subtly unweave it. His power was not shaped for small, delicate workings; his power was for destroying. It was truly ironic for one such as Arram to be delegated enough power to sunder a continent and yet all he longed was the chance to experiment and study to his hearts content. _

_After intense internal turmoil, the only thing Arram could think of that did not require a word of power that would cause backlash somewhere in the world or days of intense work that could be discovered or disrupted by a 'visit' from Ozorne or his pets, would be to simply overload it. The cells were not made to handle a black-robe's raw power. Slamming wave after wave of his black and white Gift at it could obliterate much of the spell work, enough to give him a reasonable chance at escape. He had not touched his Gift or made a move to use it since the emperor had captured him, knowing it would futile. Over the course of the past day (weeks?) his power had replenished to full power. What was causing him turmoil though, was the backlash he was almost completely certain that would ensure. _

_Annihilating the spells would cause an explosion that would most certainly cave in the surrounding cells. There was a _very _high chance that it would kill the guard he knew was stationed close by and injure or kill the people caught in the resulting cave-in. Innocent people he had probably never met or spoken too. In addition, the guard was following orders. He had no actual hand in Arram's capture and imprisonment. However, the only way to escape was to kill him and risk injuring an unknown number of people. _

_The black-robe made up his mind._

_Arram shifted painfully into a meditating position, the pain starting to pierce the fog. His robe, now truly in tatters, was caked with dried blood and his pinkies didn't want to move. Setting his mind, he took a deep breath, erasing guilt and regret from his mind (that could come later) he embraced the pain, using it to fuel his magic. He dredged up feelings of fear, betrayal, and anger, directing his magic with an iron will. _

_The cell rang like a bell as the spells reacted; Arram felt pressure, then resistance, then nothing. Fractures appeared in the wall, widening as he forced more and more magic into the effort. Cracks spilled across the woof, bringing showers of dust over the mage. Sweat rolled in lines down his face, tracking clean lines over Arram's face. He sagged in relief as he felt the dampers finally disappear and the rest of the spells break. Silence descended, almost as loud as the magic had been. Nothing stirred as a single second stretched forever. _

_The moment of silence before the storm hung in eternity. Than it broke._

* * *

The laughter of children pealed through the festival grounds. People hung hear and there, couples strolling as they took a moment together. Mothers with dirty-faced children haggled with vendors over the price of candies while the aromas of spices drifted out enticingly from open baker stalls. Sea air from the ocean cast most of the bad smells back to sea and gave the air a tangy feel. Youngsters raced under, some slipping hands into pockets with an ease that came of practice, scooping up hands of copper and silver from the pockets of commoners with foolish noblemen unknowingly give gold to the poor. Traveling minstrels piped at corners with crowds of people listening raptly to their tunes with some spilling coin into setout hats or tins. One such crowd stood near a bakers stall giving all of their attention to the man in the middle.

The commoners, mostly giggling children, watched as a tan-cloaked juggler tossed eight colorful balls hand to hand. All were of varied colors, the worn balls displaying their faded bright colors in a whirl of movement. A battered wooden cup sat in front of him, filled a little ways with copper bits and nobles. The juggler did not smile at the crowd, all the attention of his dark eyes on the spinning balls. He stood taller than most of the people in the crowd but the thinness of his limbs made many of the people regarded him as no threat.

Orould Breking didn't think so. His small wiry form, coated with street dust, stood regarding the jugglers motions with a keen eye. No thoughts were displayed over a face so plain and commonplace that many people forgot him as soon as their eyes drifted over him. An agent of the king's spymaster, Orould knew, by his line of work, that fists and physical strength weren't the only ways to harm a man.

He had been watching the street juggler two days after he had arrived in Port Legann, noticing a man that made no friends and avoided the Rogue's Court. At first, ideas that the magician was a spy for a foreign country, most likely Tyra or Carthak by his appearance, had been his thoughts. However, more observation had made Orould decide that he was only a stray whose only reason to stay in Port Legann was for the festival, when people's pockets were a little looser.

Normal people didn't notice street rats, hustlers or beggars. His master, though, told him that that's what he should do. They heard things other people did not, could see things without being seen because they were meant to be there in the minds of most people. "The only thing better than a common rat," his master had said, "are the travelers. Rats mostly forget what they hear though they remember far more than most. Travelers remember almost everything and they always have fresh eyes. Talk to the minstrels and street magicians. They always have good gossip." This was exactly what he was doing. To Orould's practiced eye, _this _street juggler was more aware than most.

The crowd began to clear around Arram as he caught half his balls in each hand. There was clapping but many had already headed away to find some more entertainment. He waited until all of them hand cleared away before bending hopefully over his tin. The amount in it was the sum of three days of work, something that inspired hope that maybe the month long festival could gain him a few full meals or maybe even a couple of day of proper lodging. _Look at you, Arram, _he chided himself, _the first moment there is a chance you can get some luxuries, you disregard all thought for the future. _

As he straightened himself, he almost ran into a nondescript man over which he towered. He was short with scruffy brown hair and cheerful blue eyes, a combination Arram had seen in four other people over the day. His odor was slightly more to be desired though Arram couldn't be one to speak.

"Good day, Master Juggler." Said the plain man, smiling broadly. "Your show was entertaining. Perhaps I could offer a drink instead of coin?"

The exiled mage watched him warily. He had mostly avoided drawing attention to himself on anything other than a professional level. He spoke to people when he guessed their cards or made illusions and needed as much attention as possible when he juggled to make it worth it; afterwards though he faded into the woodwork, the back alleys and side streets. The shadows were safe, reliable. He had nothing for some to steal and looked like it. When someone approached him like this man, Arram felt paranoid. He almost refused until he realized that that would look more of place than agreeing to an unknown man's offer for a drink.

Soon he found himself seated across from the man, who had introduced himself as Orould Breking though somehow he doubted that was his real. _Though it could be, _he though wearily, _and your just too paranoid to realize it. By Mithros, Mynoss and Shakith, you need a rest from the streets. _Bitterly, Arram knew this couldn't be possible, unless by some miracle granted by the gods threw all of Carthak into the ocean.

He studied the man in front of him more intently, nursing the ale Orould had ordered. His clothes were of homespun cloth of varied shades of brown. He had hair that looked more dusty than greasy and hang around a shallow face, his eyes a pale blue. They flickered with a practiced wariness, the kind you get when you lived on the streets a while. Arram was quite sure that he had it too, all there used to be in his eyes was a dreamer's look.

Most of the ale in the tankard was ending up on the floor. It created an uncomfortable feeling as it slowly worked its way down his arm to soak in the cloth at the elbow and drip to the floor. He had once had a ring that detected poison but he had had to leave that behind along with everything else. His books, scroll, piles of research, Lindhall, the University library… No more debates in the light of mage fire or long hours stuffed into a chair, reading long lost languages until his eyes began to play tricks on him. He was unsure if this man was an assassin but years of street life had made him weary of almost anything. He did not want to be anything but a tall, scruffy street entertainer.

Orould heard, faintly, the steady drip-drip of a liquid hitting the floor. Had he not been trained to notice such things he would not have heard it and the juggler did not show any signs that the ale was going anywhere but his mouth. Surprising, certainly, but not truly unexpected. His first impression of the man had been that this man was reclusive and running from something. What he was running from was something not high on his list of things to find out. It was just something that could be useful in coaxing the man to join up. "So Master juggler, how do you find Port Legann?"

"No 'Master', please," said the man quietly, "only Roger."

"Roger, then." Orould accepted it with a nod. Let him steer the conversation; get him comfortable.

"I find Port Legann interesting. It has many chances for a man to make a coin." Roger's response was short but not rude

"True," agreed the spy. "Many things to do, places to watch." They exchanged pleasantries, answers short but courteous. The pair spoke of the festival, common eating-places, small dips into politics. Both their glasses were nearly empty as the sky began to fade. That was when Orould got his chance.

They had been speaking off the monarchs, King Jonathon and Queen Thayet with Roger being perfectly safe around the topic. He never disagreed with them or criticized their polices. It was another layer onto his life on the streets: do not give anyone the chance to mark you as a foreigner or the city guards an opportunity to lock you up.

Orould asked, "How would you like to earn a more profitable living? One that serves Tortall?" Roger stared at him, eyes wide. He looked as if someone had sent a strike to his gut. Strange reaction. Most commoners would not know the meaning of Orould's words right away.

Arram was wordless for a moment. What did he mean? Surely, he could not have guessed that Arram was anything but a street juggler. _He couldn't have, by Mithros. I was too careful. _Finally he managed to ask. "What are you implying?" He winced; in times of great surprise he still backed into University talk. It would have been much better just to phrase it rougher, maybe _what do you mean? _A simple single word like 'what', would have worked just fine.

The spy leaned forward, one finger tapping a rhythm on the tabletop. They sat in a secluded corner of the inn and no one was within hearing distance. "I'm a spy for Tortall's spymaster and I have need of informants. I have always been taught that you travelers hear more than anyone does. Master Roger, you would gain four copper nobles a month, more if you provide useful or interesting information."

Arram thought about refusing, doubts of everything overcrowding a mind a little too creative in summoning up visions of what could happen if he was discovered. He wasn't a traitor to Carthak no matter what lies Ozorne spun; but… four nobles a month would go a long way to pulling himself out of the gutter of the streets. He couldn't attract attention. However, the very thought of full meals at least twice a week, a new pair of boots and a cloak that wouldn't be stained in every imaginable place. It was very tempting, and why not? Even if he hadn't done anything, he was in exile, accused of attacking the ruler of Carthak, a treasonous act by any countries standards and barely getting enough food to eat.

He stared right into Orould's pale blue eyes. "What would I have to do?" The spy grinned, showing off a gap in his front teeth.

**µ**

"Jon." King Jonathan of Conte looked up at the sound of his friend and spymaster's voice. He carried a stack of papers that he placed on the edge of the King's desk. Jonathan let out a small groan, looking at all the rest of papers and scrolls piled on the mahogany desk.

"George." he greeted, eyes drifting back to the papers that he had previously been reading. Something about crop imports from the east. "What is it?"

"I'm heading to Port Legann to meet up with Alanna." The spymaster said easily. There were other reasons to go to the Port but Jon didn't need to know that. His man, Orould, had something he wanted to report in person. Besides, he missed his fiery tempered wife.

"Give her my greetings and that of Thayet's. And tell her that Thayet has some clothes for her try." Both men tried to smother a grin. Thayet was renowned for trying to force Alanna into some dress or another: one of the reasons for The Lioness to leave for Port Legann with Raoul.

"I'll tell her, Jon but I think I will at some safe distance. " They laughed and George left the warm study that contained a tired King about to be drowned under paperwork.

**µ**

"You always were a softie, Raoul!" Alanna the Lioness shouted at Raoul, tired of his grumbling.

"Softie? Me?" The large knight grinned at her, unsaddling his horse. His curls were a mess and he felt as if a layer of grime smothered his skin. A fresh rain fall had caught them unaware of the outskirts of Port Legann. "What's wrong with missing the good life?"

"If you wanted it so badly," she snapped at the bigger man, "than you should have left your horse with the stable hands and went straight to your rooms. _Not _standing around here complaining that you have mud in every pore of your skin!" Raoul let out a snort and shook his head.

"I owe my horse though." he insisted, "He's even dirtier than I am!"

"You don't owe _me _though? Enough to stop you from chatting my ear off?" Alanna was tired. She longed for a hot bath and a large meal but her horse needed tending. She hated the cold and even though the days were unusually hot, the nights were as cold as ever for early spring and it made her short-tempered. It was even more infuriating when all his response was was a tired chuckle.


	3. Spilled Coins

_I have been having more problems with this chapter than with the others. I had writers block._

_I need more reviews for suggestions on how to progress this story._

_Thank-you for all previous reviews._

_This is the sort of fixed version. I am still looking for a Beta._

* * *

_**Sometimes the cards we are dealt are not always fair. However you must keep smiling and moving on**_

* * *

**Chapter Three: Spilled Coins**

Shadows gathered thickly in the false dawn light, so thick that no one noticed a single live shadow creeping among the rest. Soundless, it moved past shuttered windows and quiet markets. Pigeons, the only witnesses in these quiet hours, fluttered with annoyance as the shade disturbed their feeding grounds. They left the ground in whirls of coppers, blues and pinks. The silhouette scattered bread in a silent apology.

Approaching a door hidden in the recess of a wall, it glanced around warily, seeking any small disturbance that would warn him off. Finding none it moved swiftly to the door and rapped out a pattern. Knock thrice, stop for three seconds, and knock again. He repeated the pattern twice, knowing someone would be up and waiting. Orould settled easily against the wall and the niche, comfortable in the knowledge that the Whisper Man would not keep his top Port Legann agent standing put in the open for _too _long.

It was actually opened quicker than he expected; not five minutes had passed since he had knocked. Standing in the small doorway was a man shorter than Orould with hair you could call gold if it was washed once in awhile. "Martin." was the spy's only greeting to the innkeeper of the Fish Boat Inn and agent of the Whisper Man as he stepped through the door.

The kitchen he had entered into was clean and well used, with a banked fire in the worn hearth and the smell of spices in the air. The Fish Boat Inn catered mostly to sailors and low-level merchants as it sat practically on top of the wharf. The inn-keeper and his only son shared a room on the top floor which was only half the length of the bottom floor. There was only one other room on the top floor. Drunken snores came from the common room, a testament that Martin didn't kick out the currently homeless sailors -most of them waiting for their ship to set sail- after they passed out.

The old worn steps they climbed creaked and groaned as they moved upwards, something Orould flinched at. He, as any person in the spy trade, valued silence when moving. Not that he expected to be able to sneak up on the Whisper Man. The creaky steps were mostly likely his idea after drawing Martin and his son, Jonny, into the network. The Fish Boat served as the spymasters' headquarters when he visited Port Legann for any length of time. In truth, Orould was one of the few, excluding Martin, that knew the Whisper Man's true name. He had been actually shocked to discover that his master was the Baron of Pirate's Swoop and married to the short-tempered King's Champion as well.

Roger, his newest agent, was doing very well in the streets after his meeting with Orould. He heard a lot more than the spy had expected but it was pleasing nonetheless. It had been risky, revealing himself to a man he had only just met. In any other circumstance, he would have befriended Roger over a course of weeks, learning his secrets and sorrows, slowly turning the man to the idea of spying with a few suggestive hints. However, with the realms only lady knight and King's Own Commander coming to the port on short notice, he had no time to pull any of his agents form other assignments without putting them in risk. In addition, working on his own to keep track of two nobles who did not want to have a high profile didn't appeal to him.

Roger, whose name had a high chance of being fake, worked perfectly in fixing the situation. Once he had a description of the two nobility, he could track them by simply juggling or performing magic in the places where they happened to be though he had shown for some strange reason, a reluctance to follow them at all. Unfairly for him, Orould had judged his desperation expertly and had bullied him into watching the pair with a few well-time threats. The new spy was probably up already, a habit many street entertainers had because of years trying to steal the largest crowd form competitors, seeking a spot near the inn where Lady Alana and Sir Roual were staying.

Orould stood at attention before the wooden door in front of him, waiting for the Whisper Man to call him in.

"Come in," drawled a lazy voice from beyond the door. Orould turned the door handle and stepped into a small room made all the more cramped by the cot and desk stuck in opposite corners. An unshielded lamp sat on the small desk, casting a few light shadows on the face of the Whisper Man. A bared and shuttered window was in the far wall.

There were only two things remarkable about the spymaster. A long, slightly crooked nose and two dreamers eyes, eyes of a deep hazel that held a lot of secrets. The rest of his face couldn't be called _plain _but they couldn't be called remarkable either. A fine mix for a spy.

"My lord, it is good to see you again." Orould said, standing at ease. He had carefully left his knives in plain view. George mostly likely had knives at every place he could easily reach. It was the stress of his job after all. He would kill Orould with one of them the instant he perceived Orould as a threat to Tortall. With regret and sorrow perhaps at losing such a fine agent and perhaps friend but kill him he would. The spy understood completely, having already dealt with a spy under his command that believed that Carthak offered more than Tortall.

"These reports you have on your new informant-Roger, was it?- are good. He seems to be a good man to invest in. Reliable and competent. How long will he be staying in Port Legann? Perhaps I can suggest others to look him up when he ventures into their cities?" George always wanted to get several of his questions of the table at once so that his spies could formulate their answers in advance.

Orould was now settled in the chair in front of George, relaxing in the warm room. "Roger is… strange. He has skills on the streets. His illusions are worthy of someone who had had formal training yet he walks the streets like a commoner. No, like a hunted man. He speaks the cant of the lower streets very, very well but almost _to _well like it is something he learned as a second language, like when I speak Carthaki. He wants to avoid your wife and Sir Raoul but caves like a man uncertain of his strength when he is six feet tall. Or perhaps frightened of his strength, not uncertain of it." It wasn't what the Whisper Man had asked but Orould thought his superior needed to know this. "I don't think 'Roger' is his true name, by Trickster. Odd for a normal entertainer."

Baron George tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Interesting… Keep a close eye on him. It will be interesting to see what he does once he has money in his pockets. Will he stay on the streets or advance himself through the ranks of class, serving as a low-rank mage? If he stays on the streets you know he is definitely running form someone and has enough brains to stay hidden. Watch him. Now answer my other questions, Orould. We have till the sun reaches its peak before you should leave. "

* * *

_People were screaming. After the shock of the explosion from the wards had worn off, panic set in. Most of the people in the palace hadn't even known the cells existed and only knew that the ground had collapsed under them. Arram clutched at a wall to keep from falling, watching the chaos around him. It was his blood splattered, plaster covered skin that stopped people from noticing him; he passed as a victim of the cave-in, not the source. His exhaustion came more from his injuries, the ebbing and flaring of pain, then from the use of magic. His reserves were almost full, the wards having been weaker than expected. His gut twisted at the sight off a pale, broken leg sticking out of the crater before him. It was still twitching. _

Move, Arram, Move! It won't be long until Ozorne or his pet mages comes here to find out about the commotion! _With those thoughts, Arram limped in the direction of the University. Everyone's attention was fixed on the palace; only a few noticed the odd footprints that seemed to appear from an invisible man and they dismissed it as fantasy. The invisible black-robe was finding it hard to maintain the spell. He had studied the theory and practiced a few times but never once had he had to use it in fleeing for his life or in _any _real situation at all. Inexperience was taking its toll._

_The back ways of the capital were twisting and winding, never seeming to end up in the direction it was supposed to. Maps he had memorized under candle light on a whim came back in bits and pieces, leading him in a staggering line towards the University. No one saw him though a few looked uneasy and made the sign against evil as he passed, muttering to Mithros or the Goddess for protection. True invisibility was impossible; there were too many senses you had to try and deceive. Sight was the simplest one to manage though Arram was holding one that blocked both sight and hearing. _

_The University loomed ahead with guarded gates. Wards and barriers flooded the walls and doors to Arram's sight, multiple shades of almost every colored Gift imaginable. With an effort he managed to repress them enough to get through; it was simple enough after all, just taxing when he had so many injuries. He could spot the black and white of his own gift woven with the rest. _

_Lindhall's rooms were in the farthest building from where he stood, with Lindhall's main passion being natural studies. Arram grimaced. A whole structure full of mages, all of them loyal first to the emperor between him and perhaps the only one who would help him. No wait, they were loyal to _themselves _first. Siding with the emperor just happened to keep you alive longer. _

_The grounds of the University were quiet, the usual mummer of voices that drifted around the grounds missing. The sun stood at just after noon with its heat beating down at his shoulders. Arram limped around a corner, flinching at the pain each step induced. Without the damping spells from the mage-cells, no fog filtered the pain. New injuries from the collapse had blurred into the torture wounds. Ebbs of pain made his sight have red spots and he could feel himself going to shock. The spell was weakening the closer he got to Lindhall's building._

_His spell failed just as he stepped into the glaring sunlight shining in the courtyard that lead to his mentor's rooms. Dark eyes met the shocked expression of a mage standing not six feet away. The mages eyes got wider as he recognized Arram. He lifted a hand, the bright orange aura of his gift flared brighter as it moved into the visible spectrum. "Trait…" He began saying, a frightened, furious gleam in his eyes. _

_Arram acted without thinking. His black and white gift leapt the space between them, reaching the other before he could finish speaking. The enemy mage evaporated._

_Arram started in horror at the spot the other had just been standing in. The other… no, Hertorm Lansig, that was his name… had been a prized member of the University, renown for his study of the barrier between the realms. He hadn't stood a chance against the might of a black-robe. _

_Arram stumbled against the wall closet to him, choking back nausea. This had been no calculated appraisal of options, a decision reached and acted on based on the situation. He had, without hesitation or mercy, turned a man to ash. No, that wasn't right. No ash drifted in the air, no char littered the ground. Arram had _vaporized _a man based on nothing but his own wretched need for survival. His other decision, to overload the cell spells, had been reached after furious debate. He had regret over the death of people it had caused but had known it was going to be a side effect. It had been the only option and one only reached after a studios weighing of choices. Much to his horror, a small, tiny portion in his heart reveled at the power, the absolute power being able to turn people to dust without an ounce of effort. _

_Arram had never sought power. He had heard the stories, the tales of black-robes who had gone insane from the magic they couldn't control over the years. Countless lives had been scarified to take down the out of control mages. Then there were the ones who got drunk on the power that could shift mountains and sunder countries. Only a few had gotten to that point. Usually they got put down before they got that far. He knew that his studies under Lindhall were partly due to the fact that they had needed to have someone monitor him. Otherwise, Lindhall wouldn't have taken a war-mage under his wing. Arram hadn't believed he would be one of those because what did he need of power. His studies were enough for him._

_However, that small part of him was smug, gleeful even, of his actions over Hertorm. It terrified him. _

"_Arram." The shocked whisper reached his ears faintly, made him look up to meet Lindhalls stunned eyes. For a moment he was afraid his teacher was going to attack him. He hadn't the strength left to attack Lindhall nor the inclination to. _

"_Lindhall." He croaked out, muscles shaking. A roaring flooded his ears and he realized that he was going pass. Was he going to wake up in the Dead God's realm or in one of Ozorne's cells. Which one was better?_

_He didn't have time to decide this as the roaring got louder and his sight finally went dark. _

* * *

The crowds had gotten thinner today as the festival ran its course, though Arram still managed to collect a fair amount of coin. It was more than usual. It was ironic that after securing a steady income by the work of spying, his job as a juggler and street entertainer was supplying him with far more coin than he now needed. He planned on storing most of it away, saving it up for when he managed to slip the net with Orould. Spying in the short in places like Port Legann was all well and good but after an extended period of time it could lead to enemies than exposure. He couldn't risk it.

Watching the two nobles had been easier than expected. A flame-haired, violet eyed woman in common clothes accompanied by a large man of over six feet were fairly hard to miss. Sir Raoul didn't look like he belonged with his combed black hair and trimmed nails. His bearing, too, was off. Alanna the Lioness fit better but not by much. Arram blended well into the crowd even with his height because he acted and looked like all the people who lived the streets.

He had pondered telling Orould that he had lost them but wondered if he would believe him. For all his street smarts, he had and would be always a horrible liar. He doubted he had tricked the spy with 'Roger'.

He sat with his legs crossed, cards spread on a small cloth in front of him. A bored thug held a card in his hand, a smirk on his face telling Arram that he had no intention of paying for the black-robes tricks. A few friends stood behind him, peering over their pal's shoulder to see the card. "So which w'one have I drawn?" Demanded the man, brown eyes glinting nastily. Arram, much to his dry amusement that his thoughts were as scattered as a small child's was. He found it much simpler just to reach for his friends thoughts.

"Two of hearts." Arram murmured. How would this play? Would the thug pay up or would he have to let this slide? He wasn't in the mood for a fight. It would cause to much attention, something he didn't need right now. He eyed the area around him quickly, feeling a flutter of panic when he realized he had lost his targets. As unhappy as he was to take the assignment, once he had accepted it he would follow it through.

Something flickered in the mans eyes; they narrowed slightly. "Wrong." He snapped, slamming the card face down. Arram debated pushing it but decided not too.

"Very well." He agreed diplomatically, "Which one was it then?" The magician could practically see him struggling with the thoughts. Did he have the brainwaves of a child? Probably not. Children could lie on the spot though many were too happy with his tricks to try.

"Eleven of staffs." He managed to say. Arram bit his tongue. Eleven of staffs didn't exist; it was a joker not a number. Again he pondered pressing it. He mentally shook his head. A few small coppers weren't worth it, especially now.

The thug, his heavy limbs shifting to get more comfortable, suddenly noticed the bag of coin that sat at Arram's elbow. His hand reached to grab it before the magican could stop him. The mage froze, eyes fixed on the jingling bag. _All _his coin was in it, even the bit that Orould had given him because he had been unable to return to his 'home' before heading to watch Lady Alanna and Sir Raoul. "Wat's this?" The man leered; he shook the bag to hear how much was in it. His sneer grew larger at the noise emerging from the bag.

"Please, Sir," said Arram, watching as the blond man lurched to his feet, "That's all my coin." Arram began scooping up his cards, desperate to avoid a situation. While he was taller then the man, taller than most people, the muscles and malicious intent in the other man's eyes made him try and think of any other solution.

"And I care?" The other man laughed, revealing crooked teeth. His fellows moved forward, flanking him on either side. "You won't tell anyone of this, will you, Juggler?" They pressed him on all sides, backing him against the wall. Arram stood half slumped, not wanting to seem a bigger threat or give the other men the idea that he was resisting.

"Is there a problem, gentlemen?" The cultured, clear voice of Sir Raoul cut through the tableau. Arram jerked more fully up right to see his two targets standing behind the thugs, both with a hand on their sword hilts. Mithros witness. The fair-haired man spun around, mouth opening to snarl at Raoul. That was, until he realized how big the knight was. Not many people wore swords openly either, with the clear intent of using them. The three men were only armed with daggers and fists.

"No!" Snarled the leader, eyeing the weapons with … fear? Afraid of swords than, was the blond man.

"Than I suggest you be leaving. And give the Master Juggler his money back. _All _of it." Alanna was short, comically short next to both Arram and Raoul, but she had a aura of power around her that belayed any attempt to attack her. He watched as her purple gift flickered over her skin, invisible to anyone but him. The black-robes ability to see magic, any form, such as the Gift and Wild magic, had developed in the very beginning of his training. It had shown slightly before than but only when Gifted people had been angry or upset.

Arram watched the thugs hesitate, weighing their options. The leader gave a final snarl and tossed the bag roughly back at him. Arram made a clumsy grab for it, but he had never been very coordinated. It hit the ground, spilling bright coins over the ground. He crouched immediately to collect them as the men ran off.

"Here." A hand held out a copper noble to him and he looked up to find himself looking into violet eyes.


	4. A Helping Hand

_Sincerely sorry for the delay. I have found a beta and have fixed the previous chapters before starting on the fourth chapter_

_I've also had a _really _busy two weeks._

_This is only a flashback chapter and a little shorter because I like my cliff-hangers. _

* * *

_**"A real friend is one who walks in when the rest of the world walks out." **_

**Chapter 4: A Helping Hand**

_Arram woke to darkness. His mind felt addled with sleep but surprisingly no pain. Involuntarily, his hands jerked to his chest to find bandages and he realized that he lay in a comfortable bed. His dark eyes tried to see in the dark but he could only make out smudges of darker black in what-ever room he was in. _

_Runes in invisible Gift covered the walls, making wards that prevented unwanted entry, though not of the power Arram could produce. Unfortunately, it made a ghost light, that didn't actually make light he could see by. There was something familiar about the color._

_The… weeks in Ozorne's dungeons were mercifully blurred and foggy, the canceling of his Gift having a greater affect on him that he had realized. He hadn't a chance to analyze it after he had escaped but now his Gift had settled back into place with a painful throbbing. It was not like when he had used his entire Gift, which he had done a few times when he was younger, causing dizziness and nausea. More, it was like as if a cut had been made or something perhaps torn and then repaired with no attempt made at dulling the pain._

_The severing and fixing of the Gift had affected his mind as well. He remembered his escape in fractured memories, fragments only up to the point where he had obliterated… He cringed against that thought, that blurry memory. The recollection was harsh and raw, pulling at his ethics, making him pitifully aware of his situation. He was being forced to push his boundaries of what he thought was right and wrong; bending his morals as his life was threatened. His death count was already up to three, never minding the unseen deaths in the cave in. _

_How far would he go? Would he lose his core self in his desperation to live? Would death be preferable?_

_Carefully, he tried to rise. He would rather than then think of disturbing thoughts. Agony pierced his ribs and he froze gritting his teeth. It was difficult to not shout but somehow he managed. Harshly, Arram swung his legs over the edge of the bed, noting that his feet were bare and were feeling like hardwood. His eyes had adjusted slightly to the room's darkness but he still could not see more than three feet in front of him. _

_When the door opened on the far side of the room, spilling real light into his prison, Arram realized who the grey colored Gift belonged to. Had it really taken his mind this long to recognize his mentor's Gift? Perhaps his experiences had taken more of a toll then he had realized._

"_Arram, are you a fool?" hissed Lindhall when he saw him half out of the bed. He slammed the door close behind him and deposited the things he was carrying on the door-side table before hurrying to Arram's side. "You don't try to move when you have four cracked ribs, a back that is just barely mending and enough bruises to make a knight proud!" _

_Lindhall pushed his student back down on the bed, but was careful not to disrupt the wounds on his back. Arram's mentor looked exhausted: Black bags hung under his eyes and a fugitive look had entered them. Arram was in too much shock seeing his teacher that he just let Lindhall press him back on the double bed. None of this made any sense. Wasn't he exiled and accused of treason? So what was his esteemed teacher doing tending to his wounds? This train of mind led to several unhappy conclusions about what he was actually doing here._

_He shied away from the idea that Lindhall was harboring a fugitive. He couldn't let it kindle a hope that wouldn't be true. Rather, he let himself be distracted by the bundle his former teacher had dropped by the door; Salves, more bandages and several jars looked to be the reason a strong spicy smell had entered the room. _

_Lindhall actually looked a lot better than he had seen at first glance: his robes were clean and unsoiled, his hair was carefully combed back to look presentable. Had Lindhall been in some meeting?_

"_Lindhall," he managed to whisper, "what are you doing?"_

_Lindhall paused, his eyes darting at Arram's and then away. His hand hesitated over checking his former student's chest injuries before stoutly continuing. "I am helping a friend." He said, saying each word carefully, as if each had been weighed and measured before leaving his lips. His eyes met Arram's eyes for the first time. "I… am… helping…a…friend." He seemed to say it the second time as if trying to make the black-robe convinced this was his own choice. _

"_You shouldn't be doing this." Arram croaked, throat parched," The emperor would have you skinned in seconds if he knew."_

_Lindhall turned and walked towards the supplies he had set down. He spoke as his hands rummaged among the objects. _

"_The emperor is mad." The words were very quietly spoken. "He should have known better than to have accused you of attacking him out of nothing but a desire for power. I know you better then that." A conviction was in the last part, enough to warm Arram's heart with hope. He hadn't lost everything._

_The room was exactly as Arram remembered it; cluttered, smelling of animals, books spilled open on the desk by single shuttered window. Light sheets were on the double bed, a thicker one by the foot of the bed only to be used when Carthak got unusually cold. Not that that would bother Lindhall, he was from the north and was more used to it then Arram himself. _

_His mentor strolled across the room and poured food into the little dish in the turtle cage that stood near the wardrobe. Arram had last seen the turtle in Lindhall's study back in the more academic part of the University. _

"_You brought him here?" Asked the black-robe, watching Lindhall. "Wouldn't he be more comfortable in your study?"_

"_I needed an excuse to come in here so often, did I not?" murmured Lindhall. He dusted off his hands and studied his former student. Arram looked bad. The wounds had been bleeding heavily when he had managed to get him to his rooms to study him. They had looked horrible, his back raw and his fingers all out of shape. _

_The explosion he had heard of later. Killing three and injuring others, had taken even more out of the young man and yet he had some how staggered to through the University to reach him, evading all detection. If not for that odd flickere of Arram's gift outside in the courtyard, he wouldn't have even known he was there. _

_Arram still looked terrible. His eyes almost looked blood red from all the strained vessels in his eyes. Deep bags and healing scratches on his dark face gave the appearance of an animal attack if you didn't note the sharpness of each gash. Most of them had closed but the scabs made it look worse. The salves he had brought should be enough to speed the healing if measured correctly. It was difficult to get his hands on enough ointment without actually stealing it. You could only tell a healer too many times that a student of yours got bitten by some animal or another. _

"_I need to check your wounds," he told his student briskly, deciding that reminiscing on problems would help no one. There existed enough problems in the world to have a man spend several lifetimes trying to think of them all. _

_As he examined Arram's back wound wounds, he felt a stirring of anger and some well-hidden guilt. Had he not believed Ozorne when he had accused the young mage in the first place? A man he had helped personally train. Such was Ozorne's velvet tongue. Almost the entire university had turned against Arram- as far as Lindhall knew, he was the only one to believe his innocence- and every noble within hearing distance had already envied Arram's status to even care if the black-robe was falsely accused. Only when he had entered his rooms- a senn-night ago- had he really begun thinking about the accusations. Arram power-hungry? Arram eagerly attacking the emperor of Carthak, owner of one of the largest armies in the world? A man who had displayed reluctance to having even train as a war-mage?_

_Shocking, suicidal and stupid. None of which described Arram even remotely. Better words to describe him were forgetful, scattered and bookish. This is what had driven him to pull the fugitive to his rooms, not any drive to turn him into Ozorne alive. He had been careful to not knock any of his boney limbs against the walls and tend to the man's wounds. _

_He carefully pulled the bandages from Arram's back, wincing when he heard Arram pull in a pained breath from the yanked skin for as careful as Lindhall was, the bandage had stuck rather hard to his student's back. The skin revealed was an angry red with some sporadic bleeding. Even with the healers' potions, it would take time for it to heal fully and even then Arram would have scars that would, at least grow less noticeable over time. _

"_Arram I don't know how to get you out of Carthak. All the ports are being watched and outgoing vessels searched inch by inch. There is no spell either of us can cast that would be unnoticed and swift enough for you to get away; and Ozorne has sent your information to all the neighboring monarchs." Lindhall spread more balm over the bleeding skin. Arram sat silent for a moment, long enough for Lindhall to wonder if he had retreated into his own mind rather then face his fate in the mortal realms. _

"_Lindhall," he said at last, "has anyone disturbed my room?" _

"_They tried," admitted Lindhall, "but your wards are too carefully made and powered to keep out even the most determined intruder. The emperor has even offered a reward for any who can make it in. _I _couldn't make a ward like that. You always did surpass me in terms of power in that area." Arram let out a weak chuckle though there was some doubt. _

"_You did not offer them your bracelet?" asked Arram, "Doesn't Ozorne know of it?"_

"_No on both counts. I never did believe him, Arram, Mithros witness." Lindhall hoped that little lie would slide past Arram but he needn't have worried. Arram always took things at face value. Well, maybe before. Lindhall was not so sure now._

_Arram was getting excited, his experiment. It was possibly the only way out of Carthak without Emperor Ozorne finding out. If no one had gotten into his rooms, then nobody would know of it. You would only detect it if you were looking for it specifically and as far as he knew he was the only person that had made the attempt recently was Louren of Tyra, who had tried it sixty-seven years ago. His research had truly been invaluable in gaining all the calculations he had needed in the beginning. Hours of calculations had been saved because of Louren's meticulous notes. _

"_Lindhall, you need to get my research out of my rooms. If no one knows of it then it will be perhaps the only way out Carthak with any chance of success." It only worried Arram that he had never tested it. So much could go wrong in a rushed spell, especially one such as complex as this. _

_Lindhall frowned, worry creasing his brow. "Arram, what _is _this experiment? Its time you told me, even if it was the only way for you to get out of Carthak. Is it the reason the emperor accused you of treason?"_

_Arram shook his head. The thought of his boyhood friend falsely accusing him still burned and he still had no idea _why. _"No, Lindhall. That caught me by as much surprise as you. And I promise," He said, looking his teacher square in the eye, "if you get my research to me, I will tell you exactly what it is." Lindhall still hesitated but finally gave._

"_Let no one in." He said sternly, "if someone comes in without you sensing my gift craft a veil at the very least. I don't want to return to you having revealed your self within the short space of time I will be gone." He carefully arranged the supplies and said, "but first I will tend to the rest of your wounds. Whatever this spell is, you will need your full strength nevertheless." Arram did not try to dissuade him. His escape route would test his endurance to the utmost and he needed to have all his strength with him. _

_The warmth of the salves sank through his muscles, relaxing knotted tension that had resided there for the last… well for as long as Ozorne had held him. When Lindhall finally left, his thoughts crowded back in on him. It was very possible that Lindhall did not know that Arram had killed outside his rooms. Otherwise, it was doubtful he would have gotten the help he had received up to this point. He couldn't tell him of course. The trust his mentor had given him was precious and he couldn't afford to alienate the only person willing to give him help. _

_Ozorne was sure to find him if he stayed here for very much longer. He didn't even know if he was pushing it by staying here even one more day. If his experiment worked, he would surely get across the sea to one of the other countries. However, what would happen once he reached there? If Lindhall was right, every kingdom had his name on their list of wanted criminals. He couldn't offer his services to any of them. Trya was out of the question any way. It was his birthplace and the first place the emperor was sure to look. _

_He had no skill outside of the Gift that would help him anywhere. It would be useless in anything but small, controlled amounts since Ozorne would be able to track him through it. He had his odd hobbies, results of much reading of all different subjects. But he doubted they would be any help unless he was willing to sink to a street entertainer for work. _

_The sense of Lindhall's Gift filtered back into his senses. Moments later, the man himself entered with arms full of Arram's personal research. Everything was written in a personal code that the black-robe had personally invented. "Arram, I can't make heads or tails of this." Frustration made his tone exasperated. "What exactly is this supposed to do for you?"_

"_Careful, careful! Do you know how many hours it took to get it to this stage?" Arram tried to take the work from his teacher but Lindhall ignored his reaching. He could be insufferable when it came to making Arram take care of himself. _

"_Arram," snapped Lindhall in annoyance, "I am older then you by decades. I know how to be careful with fragile information." He put most of it down on the bedside table, gingerly, so not to muss the paper. "How many papers do you have here? It feels more then it looks."_

"_I used heavier paper." explained Arram, "Much safer and it has a better absorption of the ink." he spoke as he carefully riffled through the papers, trying not to feel his broken fingers as he did so. Maybe it had been a mistake to use the thicker paper, though he hadn't been planning on breaking his fingers so close to the completion of his work. _

_How long he had toiled over this experiment! Checking and rechecking every calculation and tirelessly testing every little breakthrough as he made them. The librarian had not even bothered to look up anymore when he had entered, too used to Arram's presence over the long weeks. _

"_My student," said Lindhall, giving into his impatience, "How do you plan to leave Carthak?"_

_Arram grinned at him, feeling more of his old self then he had in a long while, "Not long, haven't you guessed yet Lindhall? I'm going to fly."_


	5. False Smiles

_This is an all present chapter._

_Thank-you for previous reviews_

_Enjoy!_

"_**I think we all wish we could erase some dark times in our lives. But all of life's experiences, bad and good, make you who you are. Erasing any of life's experiences would be a great mistake.**__**"**_

**Chapter Five: False Smiles**

This was a mistake. A grand, messy mistake the gods had decided to play on him because his life wasn't hard enough even with all the bumps and ditches he seemed to keep falling into.

Alanna the Lioness smiled at him with concern in her eyes, those violet orbs seeming without malice. Raoul stood just behind her, watching the hastily departing thugs the two nobles had just interrupted in their attempt to rob Arram. He was enormous, perhaps only a few inches shorter than the extremely tall mage, making the Lioness almost comically short as she crouched to help Arram collect all his spilled coin. Most likely the knight of Malorie's Peak and Goldlake would have towered over her even if she was standing at her full height. The first lady knight in a century was notoriously short. Mithros witness.

Every word that had even a minor insult attached to them, every swear to the many gods who seemed intent on ruining his life, every little word with a negative connotation was progressing in Arram's mind. It was like he was running down a long mental list, a very _long_ mental list. Each coin he gathered was shortening the time when he was going to have to speak to them, try to convince them he was nothing more than a poor street juggler who happened to have catered to the wrong person. However the amount of copper he was gathering was going to contradict that story, for Orould's first payment was also spilled with the rest, making sweat spill down the former black-robes neck.

The purple veil around Alanna's body also raised the hairs on his arms, making this even more never racking. Her powerful healing Gift was as talked about in mage circles as her fighting ability was spoken among the warriors of all countries. What if she wished to examine him to make sure he suffered no none-visible injuries? That would surely detect his undeniably more than average Gift. But how could he refuse without seeming to cast even more suspicion on himself? Anyone else would have gladly welcomed the chance for a healing, especially among the lower class of Tortall's streets, which Arram was now affiliated with.

The only luck he seemed to have gotten was that even if she used the ember stone around her neck- something Orould had warned him about and he could see the unmistakable aura of divine magic surrounding it- nothing would seem out of the ordinary. If it viewed magic as the spy claimed, his magician antics would protect him. Hopefully. If there were no secret abilities Orould hadn't been privy to the knowledge of.

Arram attempted a timid smile in the nobles direction, his eyes sliding between the two with what he hoped wasn't enough alarm to make them think something was wrong. His last contact with some even closely related in a noble, in profession or birth, was Ozorne. That didn't make good practice for life on the streets and his usual method of ducking into shadows when the higher class appeared over the last two years made it impossible to watch the responses of the commoners here when faced with nobility. He knew what they would do in Carthak- he had watched them to it to him when he was out with Ozorne- but things were different here.

"Are you alright?" Asked the Lioness, calmly piling copper bits into her hand and passing them to him without pause, "Did they harm you before we… interrupted?"

"I'm fine," he lied, as his heartbeat had escalated to what would probably unhealthy levels. Mithros, Mynoss and Shakith! "I'm used to this sort of thing. I am a street performer after all." His hands were badly shaking from the stress of keeping his cool. He wondered if they had noticed. Orould hadn't told him what to do in this situation. Even the spy probably hadn't considered 'Roger' somehow managing to be almost robbed and as a result get tangled up with those he was supposed to be watching _discreetly. _

The Lioness frowned as she glanced up at Raoul. "It seems, then, that the guard has gotten lazy, if you have to deal with thugs at every day with no interference." The large knight offered her a hand, one that she took. Alanna let out a grunt as she did so. Her muscles had gotten stiff from crouching so long. Arram stayed down, carefully storing the reclaimed coin and he wondered when they would leave. Was it common for nobles to stop and help all commoners? If it was, then he had a lot more to learn about Tortall than he thought, even after two years.

"Not every-day," he sputtered hastily, "just on days when they aren't looking." Dear Goddess, Arram! Couldn't you have said anything worse? A flush touched his dark cheeks as he realized he had in all likely hood made things worse. He looked around quickly, hoping they hadn't attracted too much attention.

Three street rats crouched in the shadows of another ally to his left, watching with faintly curious eyes but didn't seem to think it very unusual. The sun was still beating down with heat but had moved farther along the sky, though it still offered no relief to the multitude of people walking the market place. Many had taken refuge in the shade offered by open alleyways, preferring to discuss their business in more comfort. Stall guards were turning irritable, glaring with more hostility at possible troublemakers. No one liked to stand in burning sun for hours.

Alanna wore brown breeches with a plain white shirt and a blue tunic of simple but well made cloth. Her sword and dagger was held in a leather scabbard of good craftsmanship. Raoul had taken a more colorful flair when choosing his clothes though they were still low-key enough to pass him as a middleclass man. His hose was a dark green and his tunic a light gold. Unlike Alanna, he wore his belt pouch openly, displaying either a heavy trust in his ability to spot pickpockets or the fact that he was naïve.

"Thank-you for your help." He said to the knights, rising to leave. Relief passed through him. They hadn't noticed anything wrong with his actions.

"Wait." Alanna's hand grabbed his arm, stopping his intentions at returning to the crowds and safety. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Please Goddess help me.

The Lioness studied the man she had grabbed. His weathered, poor quality cloak was shifting because of his movements and she got a glimpse of what was beneath. Thin, battered clothing covered a form that was far too thin for its own good, something she was seeing too much off among the street people. The juggler was bony and extremely tall, even taller than both Raoul and Gary, if she read his stooped posture right, which was surprising. You didn't see many people of their height often outside of the Shang and as knights. Dark skin Alanna saw on his thin hands suggested that he was not a native of Tortall, maybe from Tyra or even one of the Bazhir, not surprising when you considered he was a traveling street magician. His Gift appeared to be the color of a night sky, complete with stars, when she had touched her ember stone.

Why was he so nervous? The man's dark eyes held a barely hidden panic when he had first looked at her when she had passed him back one of his coins. Made he had guessed that she and Raoul were more than simple commoners out for a stroll. She should have argued harder against taking their swords along though Alanna had also been reluctant to leave her weapon behind.

Also, not many people took it on themselves to interfere with a robbery if they weren't the Provost's Guard. They would usually duck their heads and pretend it wasn't happening. After all, it might have been on the Rogue's orders and you _never _messed with Rogue business. The knight had personal experience when it came to knowing the King of Thieves power. She had witnessed it many times when George had been Corus's street King. Life on the streets wasn't kind especially if you went around messing with the Rogue.

Raoul spoke up, "Alanna, let him go. He's fine. I think he needs to get back to his work." Arram kept quiet, hoping that the independent Lioness would listen to the advice of her large companion. The Goddess had answered his prayers. Alanna let out a small scowl but released his arm. The frightened black-robe ducked into the dissipating crowds even as he heard the lady knight say something uncomplimentary to the King's Own Commander.

The sun was partly in his eyes so he almost ran over his newest employer when he slipped into an almost deserted all. "Roger! What were you thinking? "Orould looked definitely unhappy with his new employee. He looked like he was sweating a bit and his mousy hair was slightly mused. The experienced spy glowered at 'Roger' and ran a hand through his hair, roughing it up even more.

"It was not my fault." whispered Arram harshly; he glancing over Orould's shoulder to make sure no one was near enough to hear. It would have been ironic to have the spies spied upon and Arram was in enough trouble as it was. The juggler's blood was still up from the altercation with the brutes, adrenaline making him sharper then he intended too.

"Did they realize something? What were they doing over with you anyway? Don't tell me they wanted to see your show. If that was it, then we have a bigger problem then you messing up." The spymaster stared around 'Roger's' thin body, watching as the two targets exited the market in a direction east of their current position. _Please Trickster, _he prayed, _don't let Roger be more trouble than he is worth. The Whisper Man trusts me and I can't fail at watching his wife while she strolls around a market! _

When he had arrived from his meeting with Master George to find Roger had been speaking to Lady Alanna and Sir Raoul, whom he was supposed to be watching from _afar, _Orould had almost interfered, interrupted the conversation until he realized that this would had wounded the other spy's cover even more than just watching Roger almost give in to panic. The man had also been scrambling around the ground for something and a glint of copper reflecting sunlight had lead to the theory that the juggler had dropped his coins. Of all the clumsy, foolish things to happen! And in sight of the two knights to add too it!

"I was almost robbed," hissed Roger, "Three brutes decided they didn't want to give me my due and also judged my glint was _their _glint! It's not my fault those two sword-dancers wanted to give a poor juggler a helping hand!" His dark face flushed, angered at Orould's attempt to push all on him. "If you want someone to maim, go kill those ruffians!" Arram's thoughts stumbled to a stop. Had he just said 'go kill those ruffians'? He couldn't have. A sick pit opened up in his stomach.

After the death of one of his fellow colleagues at his hands, Arram had avoided thinking about death, oblivion and the Dark God. However, he still remembered the rush of glee that had materialized when that power to bend the world to his will had flooded through him. He had deluded himself to thinking that ruthlessly killing a man hadn't changed him, hadn't opened up another path that was far more tempting then the he had been currently walking on, for hadn't the path of a meek scholar given him a betrayal at the hands of his best friend? It would have been far easier to have slain Ozorne were he stood and claimed a place as a man beyond weak mortal authority. The power rush had been very, very seductive. And he had resisted it, prayed to the Gods with fever.

And now he was demanding the death of three human beings he had just chanced across, for nothing more than a mild threat that hadn't even been implemented. What was he coming too?

Orould seemed oblivious to the inter struggle that was going on in the tortured black-robes head. Or maybe he noticed and seemed far more in control of his thoughts than Arram was.


	6. First Flight

_I won't be going in-depth to the reason for Numara/Arram's exile because TP didn't go too much into it and I'm too uncertain about the reason to write it accurately. _

"_**Have the courage to live. Anyone can die.**__**"**_

**Chapter 6: First Flight**

_Arram collapsed to the floor, breathing hard. His bones felt stretched and awkward while his muscles didn't seem to work right. He felt too heavy, his bone structure far too dense. His eyes blinked rapidly, surprised to find the world dull and blurry. Human eyes were pale comparisons to that of predator birds, as Lindhall had informed Arram when the black-robe had been preparing for the first of his transformations. _

_This had been his first full body change. Over the course of the past week, with several hours refresh on the anatomy of birds, with him giving sharp attention to that of hawks and raptors in particular, Arram had been slowing and carefully changing body parts to that of a bird. It had gotten easier and more comfortable as he gained more practice. However, a full body shift was something else all together. One moment he had been a tall, lanky human male with over a hundred pounds of weight. The next he had been short, lean black hawk with less than half his mass. The absence of arms had sent him to the floor many times when he had tried to walk until he remembered that walking wasn't a typical bird pastime and just stood there. Raising the wings he now had took an entirely different set of muscles that human beings didn't have and trying to make them work was difficult and stressful. Arram was used to a center of gravity completely different than the one used by raptor birds. _

_Now back in human form just after he got used to bird species anatomy, he felt the same as when he had turned into the black hawk, only now in reverse. Now, he felt too heavy as opposed to too light, his brain trying to move muscles that didn't exist any more. _

_Shape shifting was almost instant when preformed by the Gift as long as you got the spell correct and given experience, while not easy, it was almost simple. The only thing that was supposed to be difficult was maintaining the form afterwards as it sapped at the changed mage's Gift, which was why most shape-changers in history were in the higher ranks of mage class, red and black mostly. Unfortunately, the instant shift gave the mage no chance to adapt to the structural changes whether they were changing to bird or wolf or snake. Maybe that adaptation would get easier with time but Arram had no time to test that, which yanked at him to no end. Before he had been planning to test every stage over weeks, perhaps months. Now he was planning to fly out of Carthak with only two weeks at most of training. It was sloppy, dangerous and the black-robe had no choice. _

_Lindhall had informed him that he had slept for three days in a deep slumber, a consequence of all his magic use and injuries. Arram guessed it had been more the draining of his Gift that had caused Lindhall the most concern. He had ridden out the extensive searches that had converged in the main area around Ozone's Palace in his sleep. Also, many of the first hours had been spent trying to dig out the rubble that had filled in the now destroyed mage cells. Two dead, the guard watching Arram and the bystander he had glimpsed buried in rubble and six wounded. _

_The search for him had expanded to the surrounding country and all ships docking or leaving were being tirelessly searched. His description was posted with a sizeable reward in most taverns, docks and villages. Messengers had been sent to the neighboring countries of Tortall, Tyra, and others, bearing a request that he be placed under arrest and sent back to Carthak if he was discovered in any of them. How Lindhall had managed to hide him for the previous days was a mystery but Arram thanked the gods watching over him. _

_Flying was something that he hadn't tried yet, waiting for the time when his body became reasonably adjusted to shape shifting. Also, Lindhall was attempting to find any books that might help Arram fly without killing himself in the process. While the older mage had years of studying animals, he hadn't ever expected to have to teach somebody to _fly.

_The room he was in now was an unused storeroom deep in the University. Dust lay everywhere neither of them had walked, the detritus making the young black-robe sneeze whenever he kicked up clouds of the fine brown particles. It was impossible to not disturb the dust. Lonesome crates lay against the walls where the two of them had moved them, clearing a wide space in the middle. Clean footprints walked in and out of drag marks and the only light in the room came from old lanterns placed on top of the boxes. _

_Arram carefully rose to his feet, brushing dust off his robes. Lindhall had managed to get into his rooms once more, bringing back a couple of black robes. Both were dusty from the room but still serviceable and it wasn't like he was going to use them once he reached the opposite shore. _

_He let out a deep breath. He paced towards the crate in the farthest part of the room from the door, where Lindhall had left a flask of water and half a loaf of bread when Arram had been shifting. The bread tasted good though a little stale and was filling for the moment. Cool, clean, refreshing water poured out of the flask and moistened his dry mouth. _

_It was disorienting, he decided, not to be able to see outside and measure how much time had passed. When he researched on an engrossing topic, time had flown by without him noticing. Now, with him hiding in a storeroom with every nerve on edge, time had slowed to a crawl. Preparing to shift and fly took up some of the time, as did meditating but he couldn't over reach himself by too much shape shifting and he was too nervous to meditate properly. Things he had taken for granted, washing, eating to his heart's content, browsing the University library… All that seemed so unreachable now, distant. His life had slipped through his fingers and Arram saw no way of getting it back. _

_He had one maybe two weeks before he was pushing his time limit in this country. He maybe had even less time since it was a guessing game on if anyone would notice Lindhall's odd behavior. It was always a worry if someone linked it too Arram and the black-robe didn't want anything to happen to his old teacher. _

_What he would do once out of Carthak was also unknowable. The uncertainty left him uneasy and floundering. All his talents of skills lay in the path of magic and even then he didn't know many useful spells. He had focused on research, not practical magic. He had studied them of course for he had too to pass the exams and he could recall a few but other than that he had nothing. _

_Arram put the flask down, still half filled with water and returned to the middle of the room. Mourning the past and guessing the future would get him nowhere and he could better spend his time practicing. The shift was getting easier now. His body didn't feel as if it was being stretched and squeezed. Once the shift was over, he felt his magic draining immediately. To sustain the form would be a continual drain on his Gift but he had figured at the rate his magic was used up, he could stay in the form for a maximum of three days if he pushed himself to his limits. As he gained more experience and a full Gift, it was a possibility, that he _might _be able to keep it for one week. But that was only a theory. _

_Carefully he stood on his talons, flexing his new muscles. Changing so close to the last shift was foolhardy, reckless but he would rather be doing something other than thinking too hard about the future. The most difficult part was the tail. He had never had a tail before. Bird and human share some similarities, such as two feet, two 'arms' and the same amount of senses on the face. The tail, however, was odd. His reading had indicated that the tail was one of the most important limbs on a bird, especially for flight. Lindhall had reaffirmed that fact, informing him that it helped him keep balance in flight and change direction in mid-air._

_Cautiously, he awkwardly moved towards the ropes he and Lindhall had set up to teach him to fly. The lowest one was only three feet above the floor, anchored to two crates that were spread seven feet apart. Arram managed to hop/flap to in front of the center of the rope. Carefully, he stretched out a talon to grasp the rope than remembered that he didn't have arms to support him to climb on. He let out a quiet huff of annoyance and glared at the rope. How was he supposed to do this? None of the previous shape shifters, of the few who had gained bird form, had mentioned how you were to fly. _

_His talons clicking on the dusty floor, moving quicker now that he had gotten the handle of three toes, Arram managed a strange walk to one of the crates. It took him multiple hops to get on top of the crate. To his surprise, the raptors talons dug easily into the wood. His human fingers wouldn't have been able to do that._

_The rope was taunt; barely dipping as the changed black-robe crept slowly, very slowly onto the cord. He flared his wings for balance, the bird body swaying too much for comfort. Falling three feet wasn't very painful but would hit his confidence if he couldn't keep his balance on such a simple construction. It was only when he remembered to use his tail that he gained even the semblance of balance. Arram forced himself to inch his way down the rope many times before he was confident enough to try jumping off it. For a few moments, air caught his wings and he glided. It was only the span of a few seconds and he wasn't quite sure how he had done it but it was start, one he could build on._

_Time passed as he practiced with extreme care on the lower rope. After managing to glide a few more time and keep his balance in on the rope, Arram moved on to the five foot rope. He failed miserably on the first few attempts. Vertigo, something he hadn't expected to feel at only five feet hit him hard. The first few times, he slammed in to the floor and had the breath knocked out of him. It was only by extreme luck that he didn't injure himself more than a few bruises. Lindhall would be hard pressed to find medicines that would help him without looking suspicious and if he broke a bone… Than Lindhall would have to turn him in. Other side it would be a simple matter for him to be discovered recovering from a severe injury like a broken bone. Safer for Lindhall to save himself and turn Arram in. _

_Days passed, Lindhall appeared as often as he dared, bringing him food and water. He told Arram how the search efforts were going, Ozornes frustration at being unable to find him. The University mages were nervous since they didn't know how he had escaped, none of them, hopefully, realizing that their missing black-robe was hiding in the bowls of their home. _

_Arram was soon changing three times a day, the time taken to shift lowering almost to nothing. He had bypassed the seven-foot rope and the nine-foot rope, the balance and skill coming faster now. Now he was gliding from one end of the room to the other, starting at the closest rope to the ceiling. Changing direction with the use of his tail and keeping aloft longer by flapping his wings was challenging but he managed. Lindhall was only present to some of the glides. He couldn't properly call them 'flights' as he was more gliding than anything. Mithros was watching when Arram fell from the nine-foot rope with tangled wings for Lindhall was there and he sustained nothing more than a strained muscle in his neck. _

"_Arram!" gasped Lindhall as he came through the door. His hair was out shape and he was gasping for breath. Arram saw a fading invisibility spell in the air around him. Worry flared in the pit of his stomach. He was just preparing to shift and try the high rope again when his old mentor had burst in, looking as if he was being chased by a pack of wolves. "You need to leave!"_

_The black-robe started at his teacher, blood draining form his face. What had happened? "What is it Lindhall?" he asked gripping a nearby wall for stability. Please, Mithros, please, don't be it that they have been discovered. _

"_Someone has sensed your Gift here. They don't know it's you but they are coming to search all the empty rooms with some guards. You need to leave!"_

Alanna and Raoul walked down the festive streets. Many times the two of them stopped to admire the good craftsmanship of sturdy leather boots or well made weapons. None of it equaled the quality of their weapons but seeing how the realm was doing was a good pass time. Children peered at them from behind stalls and doorways. A sweet-maker had a small crowd around him.

The Lady Knight couldn't get her thoughts off the strange street juggler they had helped out. He had seemed much more easily startled than the normal for commoners, even suspicious ones that guessed they were more than they seemed. Maybe it had been sheer startlment that had caused his overreaction, being he wasn't used to being helped out by sword-wielding strangers who appeared from nowhere.

They stopped to eat at an eating-house by the name of the Dancing Pony. It had white washed walls with clean trim and its shutters were flung open wide to let in the fresh air. Many of the lower members of the higher classes were eating inside: merchants, bankers, well off jewelers. A table near one of the windows and tucked slightly into the corner offered a good view of the room, satisfying both her own paranoid mind and Raoul's desire for sunlight. Alanna got up to get their drinks while her companion debated over what food to order.

Returning to her table with a mug of strong ale for Raoul (how did he drink the stuff?) and one of cider for herself, she found herself staring at the new table guest who was grinning at her ear to ear. "George!" she sputtered, wondering how he had managed to sneak in within the small time she had spent getting drinks. It hadn't taken her that long, Mithros witness. Raoul, she could swear, was laughing at her silently.

Her husband rose to his feet and gestured towards a chair he pulled out with the gusto of a Player. " A seat, my Lady?" He asked, eyes sparkling with mirth. She started at him for a bit, let out a sigh of exasperation and sat down. George had always, has long as she had known him, done whatever he wanted to do.

"What are you doing here, George?" the Lioness asked as Raoul waved over a serving girl. He put a hand to his heart, pulling a wounded look.

"I'm injured, kitten. Can I not want to come see my beautiful wife?" he inquired. His eyes were laughing. She glowered at him. Raoul was snickering but was trying to stop when Alanna moved her glare to him.

"I know you, George." She replied. "You wouldn't come all the way to the Port Legann to see me when I'm coming back in almost two weeks. Not unless you had a job to do."

George smiled a small smile, shaking his head, his face showing nothing but amusement. That just made her more suspicious. "What is the world coming to," he said dramatically, "if a wife won't trust her husband?"

"If you wanted an trusting and obedient wife," Alanna said tartly, "you shouldn't have married me. You should have picked a girl from court, a _proper_ lady. It's your own fault for choosing a lady knight."

Her husband, the spymaster of Tortal and former King of Thieves, just laughed at her. "Ah, if I had chosen a noble girl, how would I have told her of my Court and my fine collection of ears?" Alanna snorted at him as he kept talking. "And besides no other woman has your stuborne…!" She had smacked him lightly on the head, trying to fight off a smile.

"Truth to be told," he drawled, leaning his chair back on two legs, "Thayet asked me to remind you that there's a ball coming up. With all the dignitaries and everything. She wants to fit you for a… " He barely managed to duck the smack this time, dropping his chair with a thud on the wooden floor. "Dress." George gave Alanna a wicked smile as he reached for his drink.

Alanna's face was red.

Any and all grammatical mistakes are mine. I sent this to my beta a couple of months ago but she hasn't gotten back to me yet so I have decided to post this chapter and replace it later with the corrected version.


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